"I'll not do that. How did you know where to find me?""The sorcerer told me." Her eyes did register surprise at this. "Waleck?"Ghorn nodded. He would not speak that name. It might only be baseless superstition, but he still remembered the stories that his nannies had told him as a child. To name a sorcerer was to make him aware of your presence.She studied him for a moment with a hard gaze and then lowered the weapon. "Come in and shut the door. Spring always comes late here in the hills and, as Gran always used to tell me, you're letting the cold in."When she stepped back, he immediately did as bid. With the door shut, the fire in the hearth lit the cramped interior in sharp contrast, with warm highlights and deep shadows. Much in the cottage was old: the simple table and two chairs, plank shelving with mismatched dishes and pots, the unvarnished frames of the two narrow beds. But the bedding and linens of the larger bed and the lush rugs that were scattered on the stone floor were new. In one corner, set aside for eventual use, was a beautifully carved and varnished rocking crib. He had seen similar in markets in half a dozen cities and knew that it would fetch a price of almost a gold."I'm just having breakfast," the queen told him with genial disdain as she hung the crossbow on a hook alongside the door. "It's just porridge with goat's milk. There's enough for two, if you'd like.""Indeed I would, my lady queen."She went the hearth and swung the simmering pot out on its iron pivot arm, then reached out to the shelf and took down two white and blue bowls. "You don't have to call me that, you know," she informed him in an even tone. Without turning, she began to fill the bowls with the gruel.
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